When I was younger, I was an idealist. My ideals were casual postulates begging to be tested by the equation of life. Inside the subsets, behind the decimals, and by exponential force of experience I came to the sum of reality. Many of my ideas were false and some needed to be adjusted slightly.
In high school we had to make a portfolio of what we viewed as an ideal life. I went through and chose a castle for a home, a luxury car, and fictitious neighbors and pets. Those were secondary categories to what was on the first page: my wife.
For me, the equation was simple: high school girlfriend, college fiancé, graduate wife. It was a leisurely romp through the low plains. Instead I find that it is a a complex formula with irrational numbers and infinite variables not a graduated cylinder of exact science.
I do not know why my naivety was so vast, but its hold was euphoric; the feeling that the world would work out for me. I was the Catholic Church pre-Galileo and I was the earth of my dark universe. Perhaps it was the wonderment of adolescence or the rush of hormonal tide that gathered a library of fiction regarding love. More than likely, it was simply my inexperience.
Through my life, the idea of being in love has been at least a peripheral focus. The problem is, I didn't realize that in order to be in love, you first have to love. What I mean is that being in love is a state of being that is predicated by love itself...
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